Mano a mujer
by Garrae
Summary: Beckett: "What are we playing for?" Castle: "Pride. Or clothing." Beckett: "Clothing." A 2-shot take on the poker scene in 1.08. Pure fluff. No plot to speak of. Castle belongs to ABC and Marlowe.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Mano**

"Now we're even. So, what do you say to a...little showdown? Head to head, toe to toe, winner take all, _mano a mujer_?"

Beckett's still looking down at the cash he's just disgorged, but as soon as she looks up the air changes around her, edgy, dark and hot. The bullpen's quiet, almost deserted, and the challenge in Castle's voice is palpable. They've been dancing around each other for a couple of months, and she's getting bored of the minuet. Time for the tango.

"Hand to woman?" That's dumb. Well, not _dumb_ precisely. Not good Spanish, certainly. He probably means _mano a mano_. Though she likes the thought of _mano a mujer_ more and more with every passing second. A delicate thrill of anticipation sends little needle-chills down her nerves. Her competitive instincts, normally leashed and restrained, spring up. She likes competition: the thrill of the chase, whether she's predator or prey; the adrenaline rush of winning. Competition drives her higher, makes her more focused. And deep inside, where she doesn't admit it, certain forms of competition also make her hot. Such as this one. Now that they've finished that idiotic exchange of hand-throwing and settled those not-debts, it's time for some real poker.

She knows there's more to this than just the cards on the table. She's wholly aware – how could she not be? He spends all his time making it transparently clear – that he wants her. She's also wholly aware that she's been squeezing down her own desires and wants and that they are, tonight, very close to the surface. It's been a rough week, and it's not just the case. Throwing poker hands got rather too near to a real fight.

"Whatever it takes," smirks Castle. There's a noticeably predatory undertone to that. Seems like this is about to become another round of innuendo and subtext and making it clear that he's hot for her without ever saying the words. Well, maybe he just might get a shock. Let's see if he's not just all mouth. Though it's a very… mobile… mouth. And she doesn't only mean the amount of talking he does. His mouth has figured in a number of her dreams.

"You're on," Beckett says, her tone throwing down a gauntlet of her own, not just accepting his challenge. She's got her own agenda, and right now it involves beating the pants off Castle, who's not as good a poker player as he thinks. He's very, very good – but she's certain that she's just a little bit better, and now she's going to prove it.

"No mercy." He's still smirking, obviously convinced he's going to win.

"I'm gonna make you hurt." Her smile is knife-sharp.

He'd said, once, he'd be happy if she spanked him. She still doesn't think that's entirely – or indeed at all – true. He doesn't strike her as any sort of a sub. If he were _that_ way inclined, he might actually do what she told him occasionally. There'd be clues and tells and indications: his responses to her air of authority and the sharp snap of command in her voice, the impossibility of disobedience, would be entirely different. She hasn't seen a single one of those. He doesn't disobey her in an effort to invite pleasurable punishment. He does it to annoy her. That's just mouthing off, trying to get a rise out of her. Or possibly, in the circumstances, a fall. Flat on to her back, with her legs wide open. Still, she's pretty sure he was – er – _risen_ himself at that point. Anyway, she doesn't want a sub. Equality. That's what she usually likes: someone who'll match her. Which doesn't exclude some interesting games, by way of variation. Tiny rills of expectation flutter down her spine, and turn into small waves of heat at its base.

"Oh, you're gonna get hurt."

Is he really trying to challenge her? Oh, he is so going to lose this. Her getting hurt? Not likely. Quite apart from anything else – like that she isn't going to lose, and has no intention of losing, tonight – she's not into spanking, either delivering or receiving, or anything of a painful nature. Wounds and bruises in the line of duty are quite sufficient, in her book, and she's had enough of them to know. Time to start the dance, though. He'll never resist making some smartass comment in reply to this question, and then she'll see if he's as good as he thinks he is – at poker, and, if he's good enough – or she is – at poker, at other matters. If she's better, she'll enjoy the results too. Heads she wins, tails he loses. She likes those odds.

"What are we playing for?"

"Pride. Or clothing." _Gotcha, Castle._ He clearly expects that to be shut down with a smart negating comment in reply, because that's what she always does when he's suggestive.

"Clothing." Oh, _yes_. He looks like she hit him round the face with a wet codfish. Oh, that is an _amazing_ expression. He's completely devoid of words and thought. She grins evilly.

"What's the matter, Castle? Not up for it?" she taunts. _Gotcha_. Play or pay, Castle. If he's this bad at hiding his reactions when his bluff's called then she'll have reduced him to nakedness before she's even had to take her coat off. She thinks happily that while he may be good at poker when he's not clearly imagining her with all her clothes off he looks as if he'll be very _bad_ at it when he is. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

She really can't, in fact, lose, tonight. Either he's left completely defeated, or they find their way to some very mutually enjoyable pursuits. And if he isn't up for mutually enjoyable pursuits because she's beaten him hands down, then she won't be up for it either, because he certainly won't be the sort of man she likes, or that she thinks he is. Sore losers are a waste of space, and they're usually pretty poor in bed too.

The real question is, will he recover the power of speech and/or thought before midnight? Right now he's encouragingly incapable of either. Her grin takes on a sharp, feral edge.

"Oh well," she says, calmly, as if she couldn't care less. "If you're not interested, I'm out of here." She picks her coat off the back of the chair, and hunts out her purse. "See you."

That worked. He's actually physically preventing her from leaving. The grip on her wrist is surprisingly firm. She likes it. Strength without discomfort. Mmmmm. She stares down at his hand on her arm in a very meaningful manner.

"Oh no, Beckett. You don't get to throw that out and walk away."

"You didn't answer. I don't wait around. You snooze, you lose, Castle – of course, maybe you were scared of losing in the first place?" Her voice is delicately inquiring. "Not a problem. Time for me to go home."

"No." Well, that is encouragingly definite. "You wanna play poker, let's _play_." He obviously realises where they are. "Not here, though." Well, no. Exhibitionism is so tacky. And she'd like to keep her job.

"Mine." He raises an interrogative eyebrow. It's nearly as good a look as hers. "No interested audiences. No chance of interested audiences."

And she'll be on home ground. He's never been to her apartment – she's not even sure he knows where it is, though since he's as inquisitive as a gossip rag hack he may have found out – so he'll be at least as curious – putting his inquisitiveness to serve her ends – about how and where she lives as he is about the poker. That'll fracture his concentration even further. (The idea that he would be curious about her – ends, so to speak – wriggles down to the same end of her spine as the earlier flutters of expectation) She shifts a little, and is currently glad that her top is a relatively heavy fabric. Concealing, she might say. (The bra under it is not. Either a heavy fabric, or concealing. She'll use that to good effect, when necessary.)

She thinks a little further about strategies. She could simply play to win every hand, without revealing anything. She could lose a couple of early hands, and turn Castle to breathless mush, (except, she expects, in one single anatomical area) and then win big because on present evidence he wouldn't have a single functional brain cell left. He'd not even be able to read his cards, let alone plan his plays. In fact, if she does it right there's a very good chance he'll not care about the cards because he'll be drooling over the table. He might even leave the cards entirely. Hmmm. Does she want to be predator, or prey? Aggression, or accession? Offense or defense? Any way up, there will be no flag on _this _play. Both ideas are currently equally attractive. Bait and switch, depending on how the luck runs. That'll do nicely. The edges on her smile grow sharper.

The elevator ride is charged. Castle has returned to regarding Beckett with a hot, intent stare that makes it clear that he's imagining the results of him winning. It turns her muscles liquid and her walk to a sensual, provocative sway. Her own gaze wanders up and down his body and quite obviously lingers south of his belt. The effects are… interesting. And substantial. Another gallon or two of liquid heat invades her veins. This variety of hot liquid is almost better than coffee.

Castle flags down a cab without so much as a by-your-leave and then looks just a little silly when he realises he doesn't know where they're going. Good. The more off-balance he is, the better. For her, that is. She gives the driver the address, doesn't fail to notice Castle, completely indiscreetly, scribbling it down in his notebook, and slides in.

"Why are you writing down my address, Castle? Stalking is even creepier than staring."

"Well, Beckett, I thought that since this is going to become a regular event" – What? That wasn't precisely the plan. Or the invitation. Try before you buy. She's not committing to anything till she's tested his character.

"Says who?" Oh shit. That was not the best way to put that.

"You will. Once you've discovered just how well I can play with you you'll be happy to play again and again." That smirk should be illegal. It's a provocation defence waiting to be used all on its own. She raises a nasty eyebrow.

"Really? Isn't that just a little overconfident? My standards are very high. I'm not sure you can… measure up." She smirks in return.

"I'm sure you'll find that I …measure up to you. My… assets are quite large enough to meet the claims upon them."

This cab journey had better be quick. Much more of this sort of conversation and strip poker will simply become _strip_. She opens the cab window a fraction. There seems to be remarkably little air inside, and what there is clearly came from an oven.

"How fortunate," she says smoothly. "Since you'll have to satisfy the extensive claims I'll be making when you lose. Should I ask for a performance guarantee?" That's shut him up. Momentarily.

"Only if you provide one in return. I wasn't intending to lose, though." His gaze makes it perfectly clear what he's intending to do. It doesn't obviously involve a deck of cards. It certainly does involve hands. And no doubt mouths. And… other _assets_. Hopefully substantial assets. Though initial indications are very promising.

The cab reaches Beckett's building before the conversation can deteriorate further. Innuendo is one thing. Explicitly dirty talk should be kept private. Beckett manages to settle the fare before Castle can, mainly because she _accidentally_ slid her hand over his knee while manoeuvring her purse. It _ruined_ his fine motor skills.

"You can get out now, Castle," she snips. "We have reached our destination." He snaps back to life.

"Have we? I don't think I've reached my final destination."

"Well, on the grounds that I haven't shot you dead, possibly not. But we've reached my apartment, so are you getting out or not?" Castle moves. When Beckett extricates herself, she finds that he's left the minimum possible space for her to exit the cab, and finds further that Castle's view of good manners involves helping (ha!) her out. Which also seems to involve his flexible fingers drawing a little pattern on her arm. Said pattern migrates down her body and pauses when it can't decide which leg it likes better. She manages not to wriggle. Just.

There's no air in the elevator in her building, either, and the temperature is rising with each floor. Castle's eyes have darkened almost to black, and there seems to be remarkably little space between them given that Beckett's plastered to one side and Castle to the other. When the doors open Castle waves her to precede him and takes – she is entirely unsurprised by this – the opportunity to escort her with a hand over the small of her back. Even through her leather jacket she can feel the heat and leashed force in his gesture. Hmmm. This could be an interesting contest. Looks like both sides might be playing offense. It's not exactly how the gridiron goes. She remembers that Castle had blindsided her by proving to be a very good shot, a couple of weeks ago. Hmmm. Not just a metrosexual dilettante. Mmmm.

Inside, she locates a deck of cards and invites Castle to shuffle and deal first.

"What are the rules, Beckett?"

"If you're wearing it, it counts." She smirks. "And you've already taken your jacket off, so that puts you one down before you've even begun. Rookie mistake, Castle." She hasn't taken her jacket off, even though she's rather hotter than she'd like. Come to think of it, that might not be because of her jacket.

"But you've got jewellery on."

"So? You're wearing a watch too – and for all I know a medallion." Castle looks insulted.

"I don't wear a medallion," he says. "What do you think I am? Snoop Dogg?" Definitely insulted.

"One necklace is going to make that much difference? You're going down, and you've already mentally accepted you are." Ooops. _Baaad_ choice of language.

"Oh, am I? You like that thought?" She certainly does. Apart from any other considerations, he would stop _talking_ for a while. Probably. Though this is Castle, who never shuts up, so he's probably developed a way to talk while he's doing that too. "We'll see who goes down."

"I like the thought of you losing." She sits down on one side of a small table. Castle sits down on the other.

"What are we using for chips?"

"I think I got a bag of Gummibears." Beckett gets back up, rummages in a kitchen cabinet and eventually produces not Gummibears but a bag of Hershey's Kisses. Castle looks at her quizzically.

"Do you like Kisses, Beckett?" His gaze is firmly locked on her lips. So of course she licks them to remove their dryness. It looks like Castle liked that. There was a very definite whoosh of indrawn breath. At this rate she'll have wrecked him before the first hand.

"They have their moments," she says casually, and sits down again to dole out the candies. Castle looks insulted again. "Chocolate is always a good thing." When she's finished dividing them there's one left over. She keeps it, smirking, and awaits developments. She's not disappointed when he pouts. It gives her some interesting ideas about where she might want to plant her own mouth.

"That's not fair, Beckett. You're cheating – you've got more chips than me."

Beckett smiles wickedly. "Okay, I'll make it fair." She unwraps the candy, lifts it to her mouth, and swirls her tongue over it. Castle emits a strangled yelp. She does it again. His absolute focus on her mouth is amazingly flattering. She wasn't aware that he _could_ apply that much focus. The thought of that focus applied somewhat closer is very arousing. The fact that he is practically clinging to his chair already is even better. He's clearly exercising an enormous amount of restraint not simply to haul her across the table and ignore the _poker_ aspects of strip poker. She slurps her candy lasciviously and when he's suitably impressed (for which, she thinks, read _stunned_) pops it fully into her mouth, chews and swallows.

"I like kisses," she smirks. "When they're the right kind." She's almost sure that was a whimper. When she runs her tongue over her lips to clean off any last traces of chocolate there's no _almost_ about it. She likes this game, and they haven't even begun yet. "Are you going to deal?"

Castle shuffles expertly, Beckett turning all her attention on his fingers. She wouldn't bet against one of his many dubious contacts having taught him to stack the deck. It's a little disconcerting that watching his sizeable fingers manipulating the cards is making her think about how those same fingers could be put to better use, but she's in control of her body and mind. She is, of course, doing her very best to ensure that Castle isn't, which is leaving her a little overheated and a lot damp, but she's got this. She's on top of it. She likes being on top. She likes being underneath, as well, in the right circumstances. Dampness becomes quite definite wetness.

Beckett wins the first hand. Castle takes a shoe off and places it neatly out the way, flexing his biceps quite unnecessarily as he does. It has no effect on Beckett's concentration whatsoever, though achieving this result takes a considerable amount of effort and some rather distressing memories of the body in its motor oil bath. (She refuses even to think the word _lube_ in this company.) She proceeds to take the next three hands by employing entirely nefarious tactics to destroy Castle's concentration, including soft, sexy noises, licking her lips, biting her lip, (that _always_ works though she still has no idea why) and twirling her tongue around her fingertip, by which time the possibilities of his shoes and socks have been exhausted and she is sure his pants are too tight. Well, he started it. (not that she would have scrupled to start on those tactics herself. Poker is merely a means to an end, now.)

* * *

><p><em>Another piece of AU M-rated fluff., in two chapters, final chapter tomorrow.<em>

__If the title has been used before, I apologise. I haven't seen it used. __

_ Reviews are very much appreciated and all logged in reviews will be answered. To unlogged in reviewers, thank you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Mujer**

It's his turn to deal again. She looks at her cards, and considers her options behind a perfectly blank interrogation face. About that point she's mildly distracted by a slight draught around her ankle. She moves her leg. The draught resolves itself into a definite touch, skimming lightly under the leg of her pants. She glares at Castle. The touch disappears. So, sadly, does her train of thought. She loses the hand, and takes off her jacket, not without some relief. She's really very hot. On the next hand she's prepared for his tactics, and when she detects a foot playing with her pants leg she coughs slightly to attract Castle's eye, then adjusts her neckline, ensuring that her hands are interestingly close to her cleavage. Castle loses that hand instantly. Beckett is noticeably smug.

Right up till the point he takes his shirt off. At that point smug disappears. Oh. Oh wow. That's just _unfair_. Couldn't he have taken his watch off? That is a very nice view indeed – and very, very distracting. Still, she's got game. And a very substantial advantage. She's only lost one shoe. Castle is left with a watch, pants and underpants. On that basis she'll have won. And had a nice view to look at while she does.

He shuffles the deck. She wasn't aware that shuffling cards required the flexing of pectorals as if auditioning for Mr Universe. Not that she'd want Mr Universe. Muscles on muscles inflated by steroids are less than attractive. Castle's muscles, on the other hand, are extremely attractive. Much more so than she'd anticipated. Her body is responding to them in all sorts of brain-scrambling ways. Still, she intends to win. She looks at her cards, which are hopeless, and has an idea. If she's not going to win this hand, and given that if he takes off any more clothes _she_ will start losing, which is a bad plan; she can at least leave him brain-fried. Her cards remain hopeless, and though she bets and bluffs to the top of her considerable ability, she loses the hand. She pauses, and waits for Castle to fall into the trap.

"Aren't you going to pay up, Beckett." _Gotcha_.

"I'm considering my options," she murmurs huskily. "I could take off my necklace." She slides her hands up over her breasts and pulls the neck of her top down slightly to expose the chain. Castle squeaks. She's sure he didn't mean to. "Or a shoe." She stretches a leg out in front of her and entirely deliberately rubs it over Castle's calf. Feels like there's some nice firm muscle there too. "Or a sock." This time the extension of her leg leaves her toes, still in a sock, in his lap. She wiggles them. That's definitely a very firm muscle. Hard, one might say.

Oh. There seems to be a hand round her ankle. Her toes are now wiggling in thin air, which is wholly pointless and achieves nothing. On the other – er – hand, her foot is being massaged. The sensations run right up her leg and stop at the top, adding to the flowing, pooling heat in her body. _Still, get with the programme, Kate. You had a plan. You still have a plan_. She tugs her foot away, not without some regrets. He's good at that. She wonders what other areas might benefit from a massage. She might make a few suggestions, later. She notices that her breathing has mysteriously accelerated. Equally mysteriously, so has Castle's. She wonders idly if her eyes are as dark as his. _Stop it_, she scolds herself. She has a plan.

"Or I could take off my shirt." Castle's jaw drops. It flaps like a demented bat. He is utterly, totally dumbfounded. Flabbergasted. Brain-fried. When she pushes her chair back so that he has a perfect view of everything north of her waist and puts her fingers on the edge of her top he – oh. That's not a whimper, this time. That is a wholly predatory growl. In fact, it sounds like his brain may be fried but his body is not. She thinks that his extremely basic instincts are about to take over. Well, that's a win too. Oh yes.

She slides her top up slowly to reveal a slice of toned abdomen. The growl is considerably louder. Castle, in fact, looks poised to pounce. If there weren't a table in the way. However, it is a very small, though perfectly formed and fortunately very sturdy, table. It is not going to be much of a barrier. Its suitability as a barrier wasn't why she chose it. Not at all. Another inch of satin skin goes on display.

She's astonished by Castle's self control. He managed to hold out until she pulled the top over her head and flexed her own chest in its very pretty red lace bra. Now, however, the table is on the floor. So are the cards. So are the Hershey's Kisses. Just as well they're wrapped. She, on the other hand, is not on the floor. Nor is she on her chair, any more. She has been yanked up against Castle and she is – yes, the word is _crushed_ – against those excellent pecs and she is currently not going anywhere at all. Not that she wants to. He's currently engaged in proving to criminal conviction standards – beyond all reasonable doubt – that he can provide the right kind of kisses. Very much so. Well, she won the war. She'll let him win the peace.

She _likes _the way he kisses: deep, hard, searching and very much sure of himself and her reaction. She also likes the way he's holding her: tight and close and his hand is roaming interestingly over her rear and making her squirm provocatively against him (though she was intending to do that anyway) and now seems like a very good time to deal with a rather unnecessarily done up button and zip and _oh_ he liked that. And he liked that (astonishing what one well-directed stroke can do). And she _definitely_ likes that response. She squirms against the hand undoing her pants and imposing equally well-directed movements as it does.

Somehow she's only wearing her bra and panties and he's still holding her right up against him and he's got his thigh in between hers which is pressure where she really, really wants it and _ooohh_ he's found a spot she didn't know she had on her neck and this is the _good_ kind of aggression and maybe it's time to accede to his demands. Necessary checks are rapidly exchanged and approved before this goes too far. Lust is one thing – but stupidity is not helpful.

"I think you like these kisses too," he whispers darkly. "Don't you?" She emits a little gasp which seems to be an acceptable answer. His hand pulls her tighter into him and then catches the leg that's wound itself round his waist. "You like me playing with you, too." His fingers flex and slide intimately over her. She's not capable of answering. She lets her own fingers explore, and listens to him fail to find any words too for a moment. His assets do seem to be quite extensive. Certainly large enough to meet the claims she's currently making. Her hand grips and slides, to make sure. He goes back to plundering her mouth and ensuring that no matter how much she tries to fight back he's the one who's leading the charge.

"Bedroom. Now." She's used to giving the orders. She's not used to Castle obeying them. But he's – just for once, hallelujah – obeying this one. Though she hadn't quite expected to arrive on her bed by being dropped from his arms nor for him to be propped over her in quite such a wholly dominant, predatory manner. She'll admit it has some very interesting – and welcome – effects. He's looking down at her as if she's the only woman in the world and if she didn't know better she'd think he'd planned this. (He didn't – she thinks. She did – she _knows_.)

She runs her hand encouragingly over his body and palms him. He retaliates by using one large hand to pull and slip the fabric of her bra across her erect nipples and stimulate her breasts till she's panting and making little noises and then slides down her body to use that – _oohh_ – excellently mobile mouth about which she will never complain again to first lick and then suck and – _ohhh_ – nip and _what_ had she been doing because she's totally forgotten it and _mmm_ he's still moving downwards and his hair is really, really soft and what conditioner is he using because she might try it _ooohhhh_. She doesn't need to think. She just needs him to keep going down. She likes the reality even better than the thought. He will, too. She's perfectly confident of that.

He draws a wet, dirty circle around her navel and then stops, briefly, rises back to her mouth. A few seconds later it's clear why. "That's better, Beckett. It's very sexy, but we don't need it now." What's better? Oh. Hmph. Her bra is not a rug. Even if it's suddenly decorating the floor. He bends back to her bared breasts and proceeds to prove that the excellence of their first encounter with his mouth was no accident. She proceeds to prove that he's not the only one who can play. She runs her fingers lightly over his chest, which promptly expands in a highly flattering fashion, and then scrapes gently downward until she's reached her goal. Then she feathers lightly up and down and round about until it's clear that any more playing will be less than perfectly helpful at this point. Clarity is aided by Castle forcibly removing her hands and holding them out the way. Which is no fun. He shouldn't be using his surprisingly extensive muscle and weight advantage like that. She pulls, hopefully. It doesn't help. She's stuck. It's amazingly hot.

She flexes gently under his grip, and wriggles a little. Castle leans over her and smiles lazily. It's the same expression as she's seen on the lions at the Zoo. It says _I like to play with my food_. Guess she's worked out what she is now. Prey. Oh well, that doesn't seem like such a bad outcome suddenly. She can cope with being eaten. She'll have her turn to be the predator in time. Oh yes. She smiles back equally sensually and flexes again. He growls, deep in his chest. _Just_ like the lions. It vibrates down every nerve and vein and twitches all the muscles deep in her core in ways which leave her flushed and panting and wet.

"Now isn't this a nice game to play?" Castle asks, and then draws a line straight down from her neck to the very edge of her very brief panties.

"It has a few good points, I suppose," Beckett drawls. The effect is somewhat spoilt by the small mewl in the middle of the sentence. "It's a little inconclusive, though. How do I know if I've won?"

"I don't know how you know. I know how I know I've won, though."

"Oh?"

"I've won if you're calling my name."

"In your dreams. But in that case I'll claim a win when you're calling mine."

"And in yours, Beckett. Shall we play?" His fingers wander down a fraction further and his smile turns a little more mischievous as he teases and she mewls again.

"Knock yourself out." It's a challenge, and she knows how he'll respond. It's not only she who's competitive. This time the fingers catch on the edge of the fine fabric and take it with them. The smile's gone, too. He slithers down the bed, kissing as he goes. This time he doesn't stop at her stomach, takes a brief, light nip at her hipbone as he passes, swirls his tongue over the tiny sting and carries on down, nibbling behind her knee so she shudders and moves restlessly, ending up right down at her feet. Her feet don't need nibbled, or kissed. Castle falling at them – now that she can deal with.

He sits back on his heels, running his eyes over her naked body, gloriously naked himself and utterly unashamed. She looks him up and down as hotly as he is doing to her, sits up and reaches for him. He gathers her into him, jerks his hips against her as she straddles him and he slides over her slick heat as she leans back and he balances her all the way down as she opens to him and if he had been going to use his mouth first he isn't now and that is just _fine_ with her because he feels very, very good as he slowly slides into her and she stretches around him and _oh yes_ he fits just perfectly and she wraps her legs around him to take him deeper and he kisses her and then he moves and she moves and slowly he pulls out and slowly pushes in and by the time he's done that a few times she's already moaning and his fingers move down between them and circle and moan becomes calling out and he circles her more intensely and _Castle don't stop_ he thrusts harder, faster and _Beckett_ he groans and _yes, now, more, harder, Castle!_ it's all too much and too good and she's lost in the movement and the moment and then the release.

She doesn't want to move. There's a nice warm chest and soothingly rhythmic heartbeat under her head, two nice warm arms around her, and she's nicely tucked in. That's just – well – nice, for now. She can't think of any other word. She can't, in fact, think. When she's a little less limp, she'll think. Probably about the next step. He's played with her quite sufficiently well that making this a regular event is not at all a bad idea. She wiggles, tentatively, and finds that she isn't going anywhere just yet.

"Let's just stay right here," Castle rumbles softly. "No need to go anywhere right now." Okay, then. She snuggles back down, for a short while, and allows her brain to start functioning again. It tells her that this is all very pleasant and should be encouraged. Her body rudely interrupts her brain to tell her much more forcefully that she should be starting on the second round of games round about _right now dammit_. She doesn't normally let her body tell her what to do, but since it's been right so far tonight she'll listen to it some more. Fortunately her brain, for once, is not disagreeing. She likes it much better when they're both on the same page.

She wiggles not sideways, which would be unproductive and pointless because (one) she won't be allowed to wiggle away from Castle – so much is clear, his embrace is not painful but there's not a lot of wiggle room – and (two) it's the wrong direction, but downward. She'd missed this chance earlier. Castle, who seems to have been more or less asleep (at least he hadn't turned over, she'd prefer he were awake if she's under him) for the last while, abruptly returns to wakefulness when her mouth flickers briefly but deliberately over his nipples and then continues on down to areas which are more in need of ministration. Well. Not _in need_, precisely. But she wants to, and she enjoys it, and she's wiggled sufficiently far that she's perfectly positioned.

She licks, just once. Castle gasps. She doesn't do it again. He's very tense. She should relax him. She takes him into her mouth and twines her tongue across him. He makes some formlessly desperate noises. She likes that. She likes it even better that his hips are jerking spasmodically under her mouth. She adds a measured use of her fingers and, as a small change, her fingernails, to the evil, filthy actions that she can take with her tongue and smiles wickedly as Castle's noises turn into some language that she's sure he shouldn't be using forced out on a series of tortured groans and he is _completely_ at her mercy. Of course, she doesn't deal in mercy. She only deals in justice, and right now justice demands that she reduce him to a melted mess. So she does. He's frantically repeating her name – not many other words seem to be left in his head, and all of them are profane – and if winning is the number of times she's made him say her name then she's about six months ahead on the score sheet. On a once a week basis, naturally. It's all profoundly satisfactory. She won the poker, by default, Castle having retired from the game, and now she's won this game too. She smirks with a considerable aura of self-satisfied smugness, and wiggles seductively back north to her comfortable Castle-pillow.

Unfortunately her comfortable Castle-pillow appears to have other ideas. Which is _not fair_. It's moved. It shouldn't have done that. She wanted to snuggle into it and be cuddled, but it's _not_ _there_. She emits a very dissatisfied harrumph.

"You sound like an elephant," Castle says, obviously without any filter left at all. That is _not_ flattering.

"An _elephant_? Are you calling me an _elephant_?"

"A very pretty elephant?" He looks as if that should make it all okay. She tries to sit up to punch him. "Okay, okay, _not_ an elephant. But I thought you liked elephants." Now he's pouting plaintively from somewhere quite a long way south of her head. What's he doing down there when he ought to be up here so he can be utilised as a pillow? Can't he be useful for anything for more than one round?

Oh. Ohhhh. _That's_ a variation on useful that he can continue with. _Ohhhhh_. She becomes aware that there is a substantial unfairness in their respective abilities in this direction. Specifically, he's big enough and heavy enough and strong enough to hold her still and do whatever he likes –_ ohhh yes Castle_ – while she has to adjust – _ohhh please just like that more_ – oh the hell with thinking _just don't stop ohhhh Castle_!

It takes her some time before she can feel her limbs again, at which point she realises that Castle is back to cuddling her. She turns into him and peaceably tucks her head into his neck. He slides a distinctly possessive hand over her back. She considers objecting, and rejects it. It feels good. She runs an equally determinedly possessive hand over his shoulder.

"So are we going to do this again, Beckett?"

"Maybe," she says teasingly. There's a gentle but meaningful pat on her ass.

"Maybe?" Castle sounds professionally offended. She smirks. Teasing him in words is fun. Teasing him physically is, however, much more fun.

"Okay. But next time let's do it without the cards."

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